


Misspellings

by Renaly



Category: Helix
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/M, Prank Wars, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renaly/pseuds/Renaly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m gonna sneak over there and tattoo the word ‘Juicy’ on his fucking ass,” Anana grumbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misspellings

The first thing Anana notices is the smell.

She’d heard the ring of the bell as the door to the tattoo parlor had opened, but hadn’t looked up from her sketch until the delivery guy had passed by her desk, bringing the aroma with him. She nearly groans out loud when she sees what he’s carrying.

The guy places the large pot of gardenias down on the front counter. He checks his clipboard.

 _Don’t say it_ , Anana thinks.

“Delivery for Anana Ashoona!” he calls out.

Anana snaps her pencil in half.

Her brother Toluk glares at her as he signs for the arrangement and pushes it to the side, next to the other six flower pots.

“Funny,” one of the customers says. “You wouldn’t think a tattoo parlor would have this many flower arrangements.”

Anana opens her mouth, but Toluk gives her a warning look. “They come from the flower shop across the street,” he tells the customer.

“Oh, that’s rather sweet,” says the customer, a guy named Duchamp.

Toluk’s twin brother Miksa snorts. “Yeah, not really.” At Duchamp’s confused look, he explains. “The owner sends them over for Anana.” He jerks his thumb at his sister. “They have a complicated relationship.”

“He’s a pollen-sniffing dick,” Anana interjects, and Toluk glares at her.

“I… see,” says Duchamp, his tone suggesting the exact opposite.

Toluk rubs his forehead. “I apologize for my sister’s inappropriateness, sir,” he says as he finishes ringing up Duchamp’s transaction. Duchamp nods, but nevertheless leaves very quickly.

As soon as he is gone, a shadow falls over Anana, blocking her light—not that she’d been able to get back to work anyway.

“What have I told you about talking to customers that way?” Toluk asks as he towers above her.

“I didn’t call _him_ a dick,” Anana protests. “And he’d already paid, no harm done.”

Before Toluk can respond, Miksa makes a strangled noise. “Hey, Anana, come read the card.”

Anana stomps over to the newest bunch of flowers, grumbling under her breath. Miksa dangles the card in front of her, and she snatches it away. Printed on the inside is:

 _There was an old woman from Leeds_  
_Who swallowed a packet of seeds_  
_In less than an hour_  
_Her tits were a-flower_  
_And her arse was covered with weeds_

Anana rips the card into halves, fourths, eighths, sixteenths, while Miksa shakes with laughter.

“Stop laughing,” she snaps. “Don’t you see what this means? He’s _winning_.”

“So what?” Toluk says with exasperation. “Let him win. Who cares?”

“Sometimes I think one of us was replaced by a changeling.” Anana shakes her head.

Miksa rolls his eyes. “How’re you gonna respond? You know we’re out of superglue.”

“I’m gonna sneak over there and tattoo the word ‘Juicy’ on his fucking ass,” Anana grumbles.

“Sure, that’s a completely normal thing to say about someone you hate,” Toluk mutters as he retreats to the break room.

Anana ignores him, walking over to front window to stare at the shop across the street. A squat brown building with large windows and a green awning and trim, the words _Balleseros’s Greenhouse_ are emblazoned on the front in gold lettering. Inside, she swears she can see someone moving around.

* * *

“I don’t know why you insist on picking fights with someone who works with needles on a daily basis,” Doreen says.

Sergio smiles, his eyes on the hydrangeas he’s pruning. “If she was going to hurt me, she would’ve done it already.”

Doreen rolls her eyes. “I admire your optimism.”

“Besides, she started it,” he says almost petulantly. “She said flowers were stupid.”

“So to change her mind, you decided to drown her in them?”

“That’s not the end goal, but hey, if it happens.” Sergio brushes the clippings into a dustpan.

“Didn’t you say that tattoos weren’t real art?” Doreen reminds him.

“Yeah but I didn’t mean that. I just wanted to piss her off.”

“Why don’t you just settle this the way flower people like you are supposed to?” Doreen reaches over and plucks a chrysanthemum from a nearby pot. “She loves you, she loves you not,” she begins to recite.

Sergio snatches the flower out of her hand. “That’s a waste of a perfectly good flower. I hope you’re happy, murderer.”

Doreen just gives him that look, the one that always used to make him squirm when he had something to hide. She hasn’t given him that look in a long time, not since he opened this shop and stopped having things to hide. Without a word, she walks out of the room and into the back storeroom where he keeps the snacks.

Sergio watches her leave. When he’s sure she’s gone, he looks down at the chrysanthemum in his hand. He tries to count the remaining petals, hoping for an odd number.

_She loves me, she loves me not…_

After a moment, he throws the blossom to the ground. Stupid flowers.

He walks to his office, opens the door, steps inside, and—

Just manages to close his eyes against the spray of paint that hits him. Slowly, Sergio wipes at his eyes and mouth before turning around to glimpse Doreen trying to hide a smirk.

“You have to admit, that’s kinda funny,” she says.

“How’d she get into my office?” Sergio asks.

Doreen’s face changes into a mask of innocence, and she strolls away, whistling.

“I’m taking away your key!” he yells after her.

The brand of paint, as he discovers later, is one notable for being safe to use around plants.

* * *

The air is brisk the next morning as Anana opens up the shop. Sunlight streams in through the front glass window, giving the store a warm glow.

Above the door, the bell rings, and in walks Sergio. He plops a bag from the Starbucks down the street onto the counter, and places a Styrofoam cup next to it. “Your reward.”

Anana picks up the drink and takes a sip, and pulls a donut out of the bag and bites into it. “Thanks,” she says through a mouthful of food.

Sergio grins at her. “I love your charm.” He takes a large bite of his own bagel, then glances around. “Where are the gardenias?”

“Uh, you mean the customer deterrents?”

“They are beautiful flowers,” Sergio argues. His serious tone is somewhat underscored by the smear of jam on his cheek.

“Their smell was everywhere,” Anana counters, deciding not to mention the jam.

“So you threw them out?” He looks appalled.

Anana chews slowly. “They’re on my balcony,” she says finally.

His answering smile is brilliant, perfect white teeth showing. “Awww.”

“It’s a very small balcony,” Anana insists.

“Sure.”

“Not even a balcony, really.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It overlooks an alleyway.”

“Plenty of sunlight?”

She sighs in defeat. “Yes.”

“Excellent.” Sergio pops the last of his bagel into his mouth and straightens up from where he’d been leaning against the counter. “See ya.”

“You’re not gonna win,” she calls as he retreats.

He turns to face her, continuing to walk away. “That’s alright, being in your presence is enough.” He presses a hand to his heart.

“Get out.” Anana crumples up the paper bag that held her donut and throws it after him as he leaves the shop.

Once he’s gone, she doesn’t think about the way his lips curved into a smile, his brown eyes, the sharpness of his jawline and the stubble that dusts it.

She doesn’t think about any of that. Instead, she traces her finger over the black ‘Anana’ inked onto the side of her coffee cup. She’d started telling baristas her name is ‘Anna’ a few years ago; it still feels wrong, but it’s a relief not to have to enunciate over the sound of the whirring coffee machines in the background.

Every cup of coffee Sergio’s ever brought her has had her name written on it, correctly.

* * *

The door of _Balleseros’s_ bangs open, inasmuch as the old thing can, and Anana storms in. Normally, most people stop and stare at the massive collection of flora that lines the floor, the counters, and the dozens of shelves. Anana does not.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she yells at the dark haired figured crouched next to a potted hyacinth.

Sergio stands up, glances at her, and does a double take. “What the hell happened to your face?”

Anana’s eyes are puffy and red. “You sent me fucking dahlias, that’s what happened. Were you trying to make my throat close up?”

Mouth open, Sergio stares at her in horror. “No, of course not! I didn’t know you were allergic!”

“ _Really_.”

“How the fuck could I have known? Besides, you have a tattoo of a dahlia on your arm!”

“So?” Anana snaps irritably.

“So why the hell would you have a tattoo of something that could _kill you_?”

“It’s poetic, you fuck!” she screams.

There’s an awkward cough from behind her. She turns, and the customer from the other day, Duchamp, is standing there, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

Sergio blinks, then collects himself. “Mr. Duchamp, I have your order right here,” he says, moving to the counter.

“ _Je déteste ce putain de pays_ ,” Duchamp mutters.

Anana decides she has humiliated herself enough for one day—and she doesn’t like the hurt look in Sergio’s eyes, or what it’s doing to her—so she spins on her heel and marches out of the store.

* * *

Anana puts away the tattoo instruments as the customer, a young girl named Sarah, examines her tattoo in the mirror. It’s a double helix stretching up her back, and it blends in well the scar along her spine.

Sarah thanks her again, and goes out to the front of the parlor to wait for Anana to take her payment.

Meticulous and careful, Anana cleans each one of her tools and then sterilizes the entire room before she leaves. In the hallway, familiar voices drift out to her, and a knot forms in her stomach.

“Well, yellow chrysanthemums mean a secret admirer. Red tulips are a declaration of love. Really, the possibilities are endless.”

Turning the corner, Anana sees what she’d been dreading. Sergio is standing next to Sarah, smiling happily.

“What are you doing here?” Anana asks.

He looks at her almost lazily, dark eyelashes framing his brown eyes. “I came over to have a word with you. Turns out Doctor Jordan here needed some advice on what flowers send romantic gestures, so I of course offered my services,” he drawls.

Anana grits her teeth. “Okay, first of all, don’t talk to my customers. Second of all, don’t go giving _her_ advice on how to woo someone with flowers. For Christ’s sake, she’s trying to bang her boss!”

“Anana!” Sarah exclaims, mortification written on her face.

“What?” Sergio looks at Sarah. “Oh, sweetie, don’t bang your boss, that never ends well.”

“Oh my God,” Sarah moans, turning away from them, her face in her hands.

“Okay, that’s enough,” comes a voice from behind Anana. Sergio and Sarah jump as Toluk and Miksa appear behind her. Anana, who has played hide and seek with them all her life, barely flinches.

Miksa moves to Sarah. “I am so sorry about that, miss. Let me get you checked out.”

Toluk gestures for Anana and Sergio to follow him down the hall, and they do reluctantly.

“Guys, this thing was funny at first,” he says. “Back when it was just a couple of pranks, it had some good effects on business. Got us some attention. But you know you’re not supposed to involve the customers.” Toluk gives them each a look of disapproval.

Anana squirms uncomfortably and doesn’t look at Sergio next to her. Toluk’s right, it’s gone too far.

Toluk points to Anana’s office down the hall. “Go work this out. Don’t come out until you can act like functioning adults.” And with that, he brushes past them, making sure to bump Anana with his shoulder as he goes.

Awkwardly, the two of them take the few remaining steps to Anana’s office in silence. Anana closes the door behind them, and Sergio sits at the chair next to her desk.

“If you’re the older sibling, shouldn’t you be bossing them around?” Sergio asks.

She goes over to lean against her desk. “Yeah, I think they’re enjoying this way too much. Probably payback for all the times I stuck pennies up their noses when they were toddlers.” She still can’t bring herself to look him in the eye, not after losing her temper so ridiculously earlier.

“Hey,” he says softly, and she glances back up. His eyes are wide and earnest. “I’m sorry. For the dahlias. I wasn’t trying to hurt you; I’d never do that. I came over today to apologize.”

Anana rubs the back of her neck. “Yeah. Well. I accept your apology. And, um, I may have oversold it a bit. They won’t actually _kill_ me, I don’t think.”

“And yet you came over to my shop and screamed at me in front of a customer.”

She glares at him. “Last month, you sent me a musical flower arrangement that wouldn’t stop singing _Baby Got Back_ ,” she reminds him. “We couldn’t get it to shut up for an hour. Miksa had to take an axe to it.”

Sergio’s lips twitch. “Putting aside from the disturbing but not altogether unsurprising revelation that you guys keep an axe on hand, what do you say we call it quits? Are we even?”

“Deal,” she says. “And I’m sorry I said flowers were stupid.”

“I forgive you.” He gives her a small smile. “It’s a common assumption.”

Curious, she presses. “You know, I never asked: How’d you get into the flower business, anyway? You don’t exactly fit the type.” She makes a sweeping gesture at him, nearly six feet tall with broad shoulders and movie star good looks.

He cocks an eyebrow as if he knows exactly what she’s focusing on. After a moment, he smiles fondly. “When I was a kid, I lived in Brazil with my mom. She had a garden that she loved. We couldn’t have a garden when we moved here, our apartment was too small. But she never stopped teaching me about all the different kind of plants and what they meant.

“She died when I was 13.” If his expression changes, Anana can’t see it. “The orphanage they sent me to was just barely not awful.” He shook his head. “There was this organization… They used to hang around the orphanage recruiting kids for ‘supply runs,’ real shady stuff. Probably figured we didn’t have parents who’d care if we went missing.

“I did some small jobs for them a couple times to earn some extra cash, mostly delivering messages and stuff. Then once I turned 18, they decided I should join fulltime. When I said no…” He smiles wryly. “Well, that’s when Doreen found me unconscious in the alley. She patched me up, and I traveled around for a while before she contacted me, told me she’d found this place, and would I like to start a business?

“And here I am,” Sergio finishes.

Anana watches him. He looks cheery, but something is flickering behind his eyes. After a moment, she reaches down and rolls up her pant leg. Placing her leg on the arm of his chair, she turns her leg so that he can see the underside of her calf. “That’s the Inuit word for lost.”

Sergio lets his fingers hover over the ink on her skin, his touch feather-light. “This _and_ the death flower? You’re a lot more morbid than I thought.”

“When I was a kid, my family and I lived in a village up in the Arctic. One day when Miksa was four, he got lost for two days out on the tundra. He almost didn’t make it.”

“So that’s why you don’t like flowers. You grew up in a wasteland,” he teases, but it doesn’t bother her the way it did when her elementary school classmates used to do it.

“When’d you move here?” Sergio asks.

“Shortly after that. I’m not sure how much of it the twins remember,” says Anana. “Sometimes I’ll talk about a neighbor or a game we used to play in the snow, and they’ll look at me like I’m making it all up.

“This was my first tattoo.” She gestures to her leg. “I got it when Miksa forgot the baby name Mom used to call him.”

“And that’s how you got into tattoos?”

Anana shrugs, as though it’s not one of the most important decisions she’s ever made. “It was a good feeling, being able to record something permanently and knowing you’d never forget it.”

Sergio looks up at her, and she’s struck by the realization that he understands. The double-edged sword that was looking “weird” and looking “exotic” in a school full of white kids. The desire to fit in, coupled with the rebelliousness of building a life around the one thing they couldn’t stamp out of you.

At that moment, there’s a knock on the door. “You guys gonna behave now?” Miksa asks.

Sergio shoots her a smirk. “Ready to be a mature, tax paying adult?”

“Don’t remind me about taxes.”

“Fair enough.” He stands up, and they leave the office together.

Miksa is still standing there on the other side.

“What’s got you so grumpy?” asks Sergio. “Did Danny Torrance not want to play?”

“Ah. _The Shining_ jokes. Because I’m a twin. Wow. Your wit is unparalleled.”

Anana puts her hand on Sergio’s arm and starts to nudge him forward. “Alright, well Sergio’s leaving now.”

“Does his expression ever change?” Sergio fake-whispers as they move past Miksa.

“No, just keep walking.”

At the front door, she stops him. “Thanks for telling me all that.”

“Right back at you.” Sergio grins. He turns to the door, then pauses and faces her again. “So, if I were thinking of getting a tattoo,” he begins.

“We could probably give you some kind of discount.” Anana looks at him in curiosity. “What were you thinking of getting?”

For the first time, he looks almost shy. “A couple of dates. My mom’s birthday and… the day she died. Cheesy, right?” He smiles self-deprecatingly.

She shrugs. “I’ve done cheesier.”

“I’ll take that challenge,” he replies, then steps out the door, whistling what Anana is pretty sure are show tunes.

She watches his back as he strolls across the street, then turns around, her eyes drawn to the line of flowers from each day that week. Anana’s mostly ignored the way she refuses to throw them out until they turn brown, and she’s going to continue ignoring it for a little while longer, but something new occurs to her.

She remembers what Sergio had been telling Sarah Jordan, about flowers having different meanings. She pulls out her phone and Googles ‘gardenias flower meaning.’

After a moment, she puts her phone down, a wide grin pulling at her lips.

* * *

“But what if your hand slips?”

“It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been doing this for twelve years now. My hand has never slipped.”

“Really? _Really_? _Never_?”

“I have great concentration.”

“Yeah, but I have to take my shirt off for this. I’ll be half naked. What if you’re just so overcome by my amazing beauty—Stop laughing!”

“Tell you what: If I screw up, I’ll pay for the removal.”

“Doesn’t that hurt more than getting the tattoo? I hope you’re prepared to nurse me back to health if that happens.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll lick it better.”

 _Thud_.

Miksa watches Toluk beat his head into one of the cabinets in his office in an effort to drown out the conversation in the next room.

“Hey,” Miksa says, “At least we won’t have to keep buying new pencils.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I realized after I wrote this that I never specified WHICH boss Sarah has a crush on, nor did I use gender pronouns, which means the possibility of it being Jules is not ruled out. It is, by the way. It's Jules.  
>   
> [I'm on tumblr](http://deprofundisclamoadte.tumblr.com/).


End file.
